


Gentlemen Prefer Cuddling

by misura



Category: The Losers (2010)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 14:22:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1120901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misura/pseuds/misura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein Clay has desires and Roque <i>doesn't</i> have a knife.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gentlemen Prefer Cuddling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mumblemutter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mumblemutter/gifts).



> no real explanation for how this came to be - even with Clay's self-destructive tendencies, I figured that would make for a rather too lengthy fic, given the deadline for this and all.
> 
> instead, have some domestic-ish fluff-ish thingy?

Clay wouldn't say he disliked sex, exactly - he most definitely didn't. Sex was good. Hell, sex was great, if you had the right partner, or partner _s_ as the case might be.

Still, when you got to what Clay liked to call 'a certain level of maturity' and what other people insisted on calling 'a certain age', you also developed an appreciation for, well, _other_ things. Things that came _after_ sex.

Like, say, a good cuddle.

“I pull a knife, I bet I could cut your head off right here, right now,” Roque said, and Clay thought _Well, okay, so much for the afterglow_.

Roque was not a cuddler, which Clay privately considered a great shame, really; he was big and broad and warm, usually - some prime cuddling material, really.

Bit prickly, sometimes.

“Not before I'd have put a bullet in his brains,” Aisha said. She sounded slightly drowsy, which was probably fake, but still a bit flattering.

“Sorry,” Clay said. “Was that me him or him him?”

“Yes,” she said, which didn't exactly settle the matter. Clay supposed he'd just have to find out for himself what would happen if Roque pulled a knife, which wasn't going to happen anyway, so.

So.

“Anyone wants to stick around for breakfast tomorrow?”

“You cooking?” Roque asked, which was a little unexpected - more often than not, the mere mention of breakfast sent people running for the hills or, speaking less metaphorically, the nearest window.

A man less secure in his skills as a housewife might have gotten his feelings hurt.

“I will if you give me a reason to,” Clay said, and Roque said, “Huh,” as if he needed to think about that one for a while.

“You gonna let him near you with a knife?” Aisha asked, and Clay would have asked who she was talking to again, except that she was more or less breathing in his ear, so that probably would have been a stupid question.

“Well, I'll have a fork,” he told her, softly, knowing Roque would still be able to hear them both just fine. “A big one. And an apron that says Kiss the Cook. So I think I'll be safe.”

“Huh,” she said, but not as if she needed to think about that one for a while.

“Kiss the Cook?” Roque scoffed. “You serious?”

“Kiss, Roque,” Clay said. “Not bend over the kitchen table for an early morning quickie.” He felt it was important to set boundaries in relationships, and communicate clearly about where they were.

“And what's wrong with early morning quickies, hm?” Aisha asked.

“Nothing, as long as they happen in a bed,” Clay said. “Elsewhere, they're bad for my back.”

“You getting old, Clay,” Roque said, which was as clear a challenge as Clay had ever heard, so he sent up a quick prayer to whatever saint watched over idiots and lovers, said, “I'm not _that_ old,” and then set out to prove it.


End file.
